


Tin Soldier

by Saral_Hylor



Category: The Losers (Comic)
Genre: American Civil War, Comic Spoilers, Derogatory Language, Eternal Soldier, Losers Comic'verse, M/M, Reincarnation, Vietnam War, War Of Independence, World War I, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saral_Hylor/pseuds/Saral_Hylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fighting, always fighting. Eternal soldier. In every life he is at war, never-ending conflict. But in every life he is not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tin Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for Comic Spoilers, character death, reincarnation, era specific derogatory language. Anything else I forgot, let me know. 
> 
> Thanks to Cougars_catnip and quandong_crumble for the handholding and cheerleading. Thanks also to CC for the Vietnam War scenario idea. 
> 
> Un-beta'd because I'm impatient. Thanks to CC for the quick read through.

He was there, fighting alongside his fellow patriots, fighting the Red Coats for his freedom. A nation that wanted to stand on its own, not under the thumb of a sovereign state an ocean away. Independence was what they craved, to be free to live as they wanted. He fought for his country, and he died for it. In the battlefield, red marching past him, triumphant yet again; red seeping out of him, running into rivers of blood, mingling with all that spilt by his fellow countrymen. He'd never again see the girl back home he was sweet on. The preacher's daughter, Carlotta, with her soulful brown eyes and beautiful black hair. He'd never again get to pull her braids, tease her because he didn't know how else to get her attention. He was only sixteen, but he'd wanted to be good enough for her. But he was a solider and that'd never be good enough. 

He was fighting for freedom, but not for himself. Standing side by side with the black boy he'd grown up with. But colour had never mattered to him, he found a playmate where he could; two families close together, working the same land. Carlyle was his friend, his mama helped his around the house, and his papa had worked the stock with his. They grew up together, learnt their lessons together, even though that wasn't proper. His papa was a Lincoln man, and he was too. He would fight for the freedom of his friend, and everyone else that was damned just because the colour of their skin. He'd die for Carlyle too, die alongside him, because they were fighting for something bigger than both of them, something far greater. The abolishment of slavery was worth dying for. He reached for his friend's hand, seeking that comfort he'd been too afraid to reach for until then. Dark skin against pale; too different to ever be together. Too the same to ever be allowed. He was a soldier, and he was dying for a cause. 

It was not their war. They weren't meant to be part of it. President Wilson had pushed for neutrality. But there he was, on the Paive front, leaning hard against the wall of the trench as No Man's Land above him was rocked by Austrian grenades. He wanted out. The trenches were death traps, causing as much damage as they did provide shelter. He looked over at the man next to him, expressive brown eyes stared back at him, rifle clutched tightly in his hand. They were both scared. Everyone was scared, but no one was going to say it out loud. He didn't know the man beside him, they'd never spoken, but they were both soldiers, and they were fighting a war that wasn't supposed to be theirs. They'd die in a foreign land and be counted only as lines of white crosses in fields too far from home. He was nineteen, and wanted more than anything to reach out to the soldier beside him and offer, or receive, some kind of comfort. The call came up to go over the top, through barbwire and bullets, only to bleed and die for a cause he was struggling to believe in anymore. 

He was cold, surrounded by death and snow, in the Ardennes forest above Foy. He was a paratrooper, part of the 101st Airborne. They'd dropped into enemy territory, and they were still there. They should have gone back to England. Should have been relieved. But they were still there, without proper supplies, without proper winter uniforms, and just waiting for a Kraut mortar to drop on their heads. He was huddled inside his foxhole with his best friend, Carl. A sharpshooter he hadn't known before they began training, a short, wiry fella who felt the cold far more than he did. They had two blankets between them, one spread over the top of their foxhole, anchored with rocks and branches, the other blanket tucked tightly around them. Passing a rapidly cooling cup of coffee between them. He wrapped an arm around Carl's shoulders and held him closer, because in the cold he could get away with it. And in the cold, Carl could get away with pushing his face against his neck, and snaking his bare hands beneath his jacket and shirt to warm them against his skin. They'd both volunteered, after Pearl Harbor was hit, the Japs had made it personal then. They'd volunteered, but shivering inside that foxhole, heads bowed together, it was the whispered promises of what they'd do after the war, that kept them going. They'd only be there 'til Christmas. He told Carl of the factory his father ran, making radios and record players before the war, and how he wanted to take over the designing of them when they got home. Carl could come with him, of course, back home. It was easy to pretend they could have a future, in those dark nights. But then the call came for the assault on Foy, and bullets and mortar fire easily shattered dreams. 

He was crouched low and running, away from the helicopter that hadn't quite landed. Men meet him part way across the field, and there was blood on his hands before he knew it. When there was time, he wondered if his hands would ever come clean again, but there was no time to think beyond stopping the bleeding and loading the wounded soldiers onto the chopper. It was the war they should have stayed out of; but the threat of communism was too great. It was the war unlike others, the rules were forgotten, the Viet Cong snuck around and attacked their troops before they even knew what was going on. Guerilla warfare, is what they called it. He had blood up to his elbows and all down the front of his uniform; not everyone made it, but he was a medic and he had to try. The chopper pilot caught his eye for a moment, and then they were off, raising smoothly into the sky. The guys had nicknamed the pilot Panther, and despite the joy he got out of humming the Pink Panther theme whenever he was around the pilot, he couldn't help but think that a bird type would have been a more apt name. They were a team, on and off duty. Part of a war they no longer understood. He heard the frantic beeping, Panther's cursing over his comm unit, and then the whole helicopter rocked and began to spiral. He was a medic, twenty two, and it was his job to keep wounded soldiers calm, even when he knew they were all going to die. 

He was in a pipe room, of an oil rig, of New Jerusalem. It was hard to fathom that in this day and age, a couple of crackpots could blow some shit up and declare they had made a new country. He was winded, and out of bullets, but that was nothing compared to the panic racing through him at the site of Cougar's blood. The sniper, his best friend, his _more_ , was bleeding over a nuke. Clay was gone. Roque was gone. Pooch had gone home. And he could only hope that the loco bitch was dead too. Cougar was looking at him, defeated and resigned to giving up. But he didn't want to give up on Cougar. He didn't want to leave him behind, didn't want to lose him. He wanted the late night whispered promises of life after Max, of acres of land, of two dogs, a couple of horses and a handful of cows. Of late nights and early mornings, and no more fighting. He'd drag Cougar through the pipeline, and all the way back to shore for that if he had to. They weren't soldiers anymore and he'd be fucked if either of them were going to die for the country that had forsaken them. 


End file.
